


Quite Urgent, Actually

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airports, But Just the Leading Edge of an Established Relationship, But of course They Don't Talk About Feelings, Commissioned fic, Established Relationship, Exchanging Dirty Photos, Fluff, Kissing in the Damn Airport, Like Just the Part Where They've Started Having Sex, M/M, Now That's the Stuff Romance is Made Of, Pining, Reunions, Romantic Fluff, Sickfic, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in South Africa on a (too boring for John) case, Sherlock gets a bad cold and can't fly back to London. John pines. Dick pix are solicited and sent (plus a video!). The doctor Mycroft arranges for Sherlock is too beautiful to be trusted, and there's romance in the Heathrow Arrivals Hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quite Urgent, Actually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starrla89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrla89/gifts).



> This fic was commissioned by the lovely and amazing Starrla89.

“It’s only a week. Ten days at the most.”

They were in the shower washing off the leavings of a vigorous shag; John cleaned his best bits under the fall of warm water and Sherlock stood behind him, strong fingers squidging fragrant suds through John’s hair.

“Still, though. Haven’t been apart from you, even overnight, since—” John saved himself having to finish with anything resembling actual words or phrases by thrusting his face forward into the shower’s spray, turning his head and digging fingers into his scalp to help rinse away the shampoo. _Since we became lovers_ (eugh). _Since we became boyfriends_ (they were not boys, far from it). _Since you dropped your half-drunk and fully-naked self into my bed that night and the whole world went off like rockets_ (that about covered it).

“I know, I imagine you’ll miss me,” Sherlock said, and leaned to kiss the back of John’s shoulder, then made moves that resulted in the two switching places. John handed over the plastic puffy sponge thing and Sherlock smothered it in a glob of supposedly manly smelling shower gel, squishing it hard in his fists to raise the bubbles, which went cascading down his forearms before he at last slapped the thing seemingly at random and swiped carelessly, first at his upper arm, then across his belly, his neck, his thigh. He held it at the base of his throat and squeezed, letting the foam run down the front of his body. For someone so methodical in other areas of his life, Sherlock showered rather like a five-year-old. John found it endearing, like the naughty-smiling, almost comically eager expression Sherlock would throw at John when they were doing nothing much around the flat, always accompanied by a quick jerk of his head toward the bedroom. They had the normal, wonderful, “can’t get enough of you now you’ve granted me a full access pass” energy of a new relationship; only their flagging physical stamina gave them away as men of a certain age, for all the teenager-y hormones pinballing about the place. Both were in near-constant states of giddy desire for each other, though John would have had them in the usual _dinner and a DVD, then to bed_ routine except that Sherlock—bless his head—perhaps because his experience was less and longer in the past, would have had them in bed all day and night. There was a lot he wanted to try (or to try and have it be _good_ , or to try and actually _enjoy_ it), and Sherlock Holmes was known for many things, but patience was not one of them.

It was—and this really couldn’t be emphasized enough— _all fine_ with John.

“I must remember never again to tell Mycroft I’m bored, unless I’m prepared to get involved in elections in Burma, or go undercover in Onsk.” John had liberated the scrubber-thing (what were they called, really?) and given Sherlock a slightly more orderly going-over, at first merely efficient, though there were certain planes that required a trail of kisses in the wake of the thing, and certain curves that demanded John’s fingers to smooth around and over and— _oh, Christ_ —between. “I shouldn’t have let him tell me the details; once he got going, it became too interesting to say no to.” Sherlock paused; the water was going cool. “Don’t tell me you’re ready for another go so soon.” His eyebrow went up.

“Not entirely ready, no,” John admitted, and licked beads of water off Sherlock’s neck. “But let me take you back to bed and kiss you all over, starting. . .about. . . _here_. . .” he flicked the tip of his tongue against Sherlock’s ear lobe. “And by the time I reach those pretty ankles of yours, we’ll both be begging for them to be hoisted up on my shoulders.”

“It’s a sound plan.”

*

**_First Tuesday_ **

_How’s the hotel?_

_Only adequate. No coffeemaker. I’m using that as an excuse to order a massive amount of room service, given Mycroft’s paying. –SH_

_Have you met up with the. . .well, it’s not really a client. Mycroft’s. . .whatever?_

_A furious woman in a Chanel suit and fantastically expensive shoes who allows herself a blubbering 90-minute cry every Sunday night in order to keep it together in the office all week.—SH_

_She sounds fantastic. Get me her card._

_She only dates Caribbean men. Keeps several, in fact, in flats in different parts of town.—SH_

_Well, be safe. Call me tomorrow if you have a few minutes._

 

**_First Saturday_ **

“You sound stuffed up; did you catch something on the plane, maybe?”

Sherlock had quite distinctly called him _Johd_ at least twice, and if his repeated sniffing wasn’t from an upper respiratory infection, John would have to murder Sherlock for going all the way to Johannesburg for drugs he could as easily have found within a half-mile of home.

“I’m find, Johd.” He sniffed, then tried again. “Fi- _nuh_.”

“That’s not very convincing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock held the phone away and snorted.

“Steam. Keep things moving. Boil water in the coffeemaker and—”

“I told you, the roomb doesn’t have a coffeemaker.”

“Then order a pot of boiling water and as soon as it arrives, dump it in the ice bucket, and throw a towel over your head. Or take a shower with the bathroom door shut.”

“I know how to make _steam_ , Johd.”

“Force fluids, and rest as much as you can. Doctor’s orders.”

 

**_Second Thursday_ **

Sherlock sent an email saying that he had been given a shocking amount of paper to sort through, looking for patterns in a set of banking records as well as in email communications between and among eight people, most of whom were suspected of running a Ponzi scheme connected at a dangerously tiny distance from an entire nation’s economic stability. It sounded a dreadful slog to John, but Sherlock had actually finished his brief, incomprehensible discussion of the data with the phrase, “So that’s been quite fun,” and John did not see sarcasm in it.

He also mentioned that John had been right, he’d caught a bit of a something—a cold—nothing serious, which was making him, well, his word was “lazy” but John translated it as “tired” and had caused him to try three South African over-the-counter medications which had rated one, four, and five-plus stars on Sherlock’s “bloody-gets-you-bloody- _high_ ” ratings scale, but which had all failed to alleviate his symptoms, which now included not just the sniffling and denasal voice John had heard on the phone, but unproductive coughing and over-productive sneezes.

John emailed him back, reminded him to please put away the papers by 11pm and try to get some sleep (prop up on pillows a bit; it might help the cough).

 

**_Third Monday_ **

“I’m sending you a rather alarmbing photo; I wanted to ward you.”

“Thanks for that, then.”

Sherlock held the phone away, presumably fiddling with it to send the photo, and coughed a storm.

“You sound absolutely awful. Did you find anything that helps with the cough?”

“I can’t think on those dervous-system suppressant drugs.”

“You’re not supposed to think; you’re supposed to sleep.”

“Anyway, there’s the photo.”

John held the phone away to look.

“Jeezus, Sherlock! How long has your eye looked like that?”

“I woke up with it sealed shut. Applied a warm compress, and this is what I’m left with.”

“It looks like you sneezed into your own eye. I have actually never seen this before. Is it—what—sticky?”

“This is a repellant line of questioning, and I refuse to answer.”

“It’s probably fine,” John told him, “In the sense that it won’t blind you or anything. Your sclera is worrisome, as pink as it is, but the discharge is probably just. . .an annoyance. It’s just quite a bad cold. What did you eat today?”

“A ciddamud-bud thing. Well, half. Coffee.”

“Finally got a coffeemaker, did you?”

“Doh. I ordered roomb service.”

“Rest when you can. Warm compresses for the eye is a good impulse. Do they both look like this?”

“Yes.”

“Blow your nose, don’t sniff. How’s the cough?”

“Disgusting.”

“And how’s the work?”

“Frustrating. I thought I’d be hombe yesterday. But now it looks like a few days bore, at least.”

“Well, take care of yourself. I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly.”

“Thank you, Johd.”

 

**_Third Saturday_ **

It was nearly one in the morning when John’s phone rang, waking him from the earliest moments of hard-won sleep.

“Sherlock, hi.”

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“Not at all. I haven’t been sleeping well. Anyway I’d rather talk to you.”

“That’s dice to hear.” Sherlock coughed violently for half a minute.

“You sound worse than ever.”

“I’m biserable. I want to cumb hombe.”

John burrowed deeper into his blankets. “Poor you,” he said quietly, his edge-of-sleepiness and the fact he missed Sherlock conspiring to remove any self-consciousness he may have had about sounding soft. “Did Mycroft find you a doctor?”

“Yes, but she can’t see be until Bunday.” Sherlock must have set the phone on the bed; the sound of his nose-blowing was muffled and sounded distant. “By face hurts. I’ve dever had such a headache.”

“Probably a sinus infection. How are those pretty eyes of yours?”

“Better. I think it’s sinking. Dow it’s in my throat and chest.”

Faint alarm bells sounded in the back of John’s mind. “Breathing all right? Any pain in your chest?”

“Doh paind. I’ll be all right. Like you said the other day, it’s just a—” he coughed again. “Pardon be. Just a very bad cold.”

“The doctor will give your lungs a listen. Have you taken anything to help you sleep?”

“Let’s dot talk about it eddymore, please, Johd. What did you do today?”

“Tidied the flat a bit—just my own things, don’t worry—then this afternoon I started watching a movie on the laptop, which lead to looking at porn, which lead to thinking about you.”

Sherlock let out a sly sounding hum. “Anything in particular?”

“Of course. But you’re in no condition.”

Sherlock sounded regretful. “Doh. I suppose dot.” Again there came the distant sound of nose-blowing.

“Get better, come home, I have things I need to do to you.”

“Soond as I cand.”

“Anyway, I could at least be stroking your hair as you fall asleep,” John sighed. “That would be lovely. You should rest. What is it, three in the morning where you are?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock coughed and coughed. “ _Damnb it_! I hate this. I think I’ll try more steam.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good dight, Johd.”

 

**_Fourth Monday_ **

_This doctor of Mycroft’s is ridiculously beautiful. I don’t trust her.—SH_

_Another one who sounds right up my street. Wedding ring? Give me her number._

_Is there such a place as the Universite de Marrakech? Google it for me.—SH  
Nevermind, here she comes again.—SH_

_I’ve good news and bad news.—SH_

_I’m sitting down._

_Good: The beautiful doctor has packed me a goody bag. They give the good stuff for coughs here, apparently.—SH_

_And the bad news?_

_I’ve got a sinus infection, eye infection, and both my ears are “the worst I’ve ever seen in an adult. Aren’t you in pain?”—SH_

_So. . .no flying. With ears like that._

_Indeed.—SH_

[ _John CALLING. . ._ ]

“I’m sorry, Johd. _Believe_ be I want to get back _imbediately_. Eddy cliends on the horizon once I’m back?”

“Probably a few. The inbox is always full; just a matter of finding you an interesting one. So when will you be coming home, then?”

John didn’t want to sound like he was pestering, but being in the flat without Sherlock for three entire weeks was making him itchy. He was restless and bored. And lonely. Even when Sherlock had sometimes gone days without speaking, at least he was _there_. And of course, now that they were. . . ( _coupled up?_ NO.) . . .there was an entirely new aspect to not having Sherlock nearby. John may or may not have opened the cotton sack in the bottom of the wardrobe where Sherlock bundled his shirts to go to the laundry, and he may or may not have inhaled hard, and he may or may not have mooned about the place for a while like a broody teen with a pop star crush.

“Bycroft’s arranged a jet. Friday borning. Fingers crossed.”

“Take all the meds. Try to get some sleep. The work for Mycroft’s done, right? So you should be able to focus on getting well.”

“The beautiful doctor gabe be her card. I suppose it’s significant that she wrote ‘as soon as you’re feeling better’ on the back and underlined the ‘as soon as’ bit? Oh. This is her personal bobile number. Her first nabe is Riette.”

“Significantly questionable ethics,” John retorted, smiling. “She’s gotten intimate with your ear canals, now she wants to put that fat-lipped mouth of yours to good use.”

“That _is_ quite unethical, thend. She seembs interesting; I’ll keep it just in case.”

John laughed. Before he had time to overthink it (their entire discussion of feelings thus far limited to muttering, “Feels nice?” and “Fuck, that feels so good,” and other phrases in that vein, he was still carefully filtering anything that might be construed as lovetalk), John blurted out a gusty, “God, I miss you.”

“Back as soon as I can be,” Sherlock replied, and they quickly said goodbyes and rang off.

John hardly thought it was a catastrophe—it’s not as if he’d come out with _I love you_ , after all—missing Sherlock could mean any number of things. I miss going out on cases. I miss having someone to split the takeaways with. I miss being able to rely on at least one orgasm a day I didn’t arrange on my own. It didn’t have to mean he missed seeing Sherlock’s bare feet on the kitchen floor while he waited for the tea to steep, his toes wriggling as if to escape the cold surface. Or that he missed all the dozens (maybe hundreds) of different ways Sherlock said, “John.” Or that he missed the weight and warmth of him close by as John fell asleep—curled around Sherlock’s back, or Sherlock curled around his back, or side by side with just their pinkies touching.

But he did, in fact, miss Sherlock in all those ways, and more besides. His phone buzzed to life where it lay in his slack hand, resting palm-up on the arm of the chair.

 _I miss you, too._  
_Quite desperately, in fact._  
_It’s me, by the way. –SH_

John smiled and his heart ached in the same way it did when he saw one of those online videos of a baby eating a bit of lemon, how cute and funny it was, and how they often looked so utterly betrayed and offended. _It’s me, by the way_. That was just bloody adorable, was what that was.

_I know it’s you, it’s coming from your phone.  
I’m glad to be missed._

He held his breath a bit, waiting for Sherlock’s reply. Such a lot of nothing, but it was the most emotionally exposed he’d ever felt. _I miss you; I miss you, too._ He’d never survive it if they started reporting their emotions out loud on a regular basis. At least not beyond _, I want to lick your little arsehole until you scream_ , but John supposed that was unlikely to fall under the heading of emotional declarations. How was it so easy to casually toss around pornographic levels of obscenity, yet so difficult to say, _I like you and I’m getting a bit used to this, and for the first time in recent memory I have a reason to hope I’m still alive next week, next winter, in five years. . .and the reason is you?_

_So why not send me a photo of your cock? —SH_

John was actually relieved Sherlock was ignoring their sentimental outbursts in favour of staying on ground they’d already established was firm. He did not want their first exchange of actual emotion to be over text message. He wanted to see Sherlock look up at him shyly from under his dark eyelashes, the way he sometimes did. He wanted to see Sherlock’s eyes go wide and soft, the way they sometimes did. He wanted to see those impossibly blue-green eyes practically disappear into slits when Sherlock’s genuine smile broke wide to light up his whole face, the way it so rarely did. When John talked to him—if John talked to him—about anything deeper than whose bed they would use, John wanted to be looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

_I’m not doing that._

_Wrap your hand around it, for perspective and scale.  
Lick your palm and fingers instead of slicking up. I like that. It’s hot._

_I’m not sending you a picture of my prick, Sherlock._

_I’ll send you one of mine, if you like._  
_Turnabout is fair play._  
_And anyway now I’m thinking about yours, I’m getting hard._

Unfair. Without even being invited to do so, John’s mind played him a brief porn loop of Sherlock, clean and damp from the steam of a hot shower, with his skin flushed pink and his nipples soft and swollen, ready for John to pinch and suck to make them tighten. Those long legs beneath a snowy-white hotel bath towel John could unhitch from around Sherlock’s waist, and let fall.

_On second thought, send a video. I want to see you come, thinking about me.  
Missing me._

_You’re a bad man, Sherlock Holmes._

_If I can’t fall asleep with my hand on your thigh, this is the least you can do._

In the end, John sent three photos, and finally a 45-second video. Sherlock was right, it was the least he could do. About five minutes after that, Sherlock sent a photo of the pale expanse of his belly and chest, streaked with glistening cum.

_That’s fucking gorgeous. Come back soon._

_Good night. Sleep well._

**_Fourth Thursday_ **

_Home tomorrow.—SH_

_Definitely? Email me the flight details; I’ll meet you at the airport._

_Definitely. The beautiful doctor made a housecall showing a lot of cleavage and cleared me to fly.  
Don’t go to any trouble.—SH_

_It’s no trouble. I’m looking forward to seeing you._

_I feel the same.—SH_

 

**_Final Friday_ **

As soon as he’d been cleared to fly, Sherlock had insisted Mycroft’s jet be ready to leave that very night, by midnight, so he would arrive in London before noon, having dosed up on the last of the drowsy South African medications so he could sleep through most of the trip. John woke with the sun, with a bit of that Christmas morning feeling, and did not linger in bed. He tidied the flat a bit (not that Sherlock would notice, but it was a gesture and kept him busy—made the time pass), went for a run, had a quick wank to ensure he wouldn’t embarrass himself later, then showered and dressed. Not a few times he found himself humming and singing under this breath.

The airport was an utter madhouse, as ever, and John would have to wait for Sherlock to clear customs.  He found a spot with a clear view of where he thought Sherlock might emerge, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking toe to heel just a bit, smiling at old ladies who passed. Old ladies always smiled at him; he had that sort of face. There was a steady stream of people emerging from customs: harried parents with dazed-looking kids; businesspeople in rumpled suit-halves with the jackets slung over the top of their rolling cases; American students with Canadian flag patches sewn on their rucksacks. People waiting for loved ones to arrive stood alone or in clumps—one huge group had signs and balloons, someone bringing a grandchild for its first extended family visit, looked like—all staring expectantly at the same four sets of glass doors. Around these watchful waiters, peopled moved in every direction, all either expectant, or joyful, or exhausted, or relieved—or all of those at once. John liked the noise of the place, though, a steady background din of voices, random clattering, footsteps on heavy-duty lino, mobile phones ringing out notifications as they were switched on, occasional bursts of laughter or loud conversation in every accent, in so many languages.

And there he was—certainly not looking like someone who had just spent eleven hours on a plane—in an indigo suit with the jacket button done up, golden-white shirt open at the throat, pulling his own wheeled case (matte silvertone metal, designer, easy to spot on the baggage carousel he never needed to put it on, but ridiculously expensive), a garment bag with more of his suits inside folded over and cunningly secured to its handle. The perks of private jet travel: a seat comfortable enough for quality sleep, plentiful hydration options (both consumable and topical), and a restroom of adequate size and accoutrements to fix oneself up so that swanning into the arrivals hall, one cut a figure more like a movie idol than a coach-class sadsack. Of course, Sherlock cut that movie idol figure most of the time. He walked a few yards into the hall, slowed, and stopped, and narrowed his eyes, and scanned. It was steely, methodical, sweeping east to west, registering each face in turn, even as they moved and changed.

John waited for Sherlock spot him, but his face, slowly turning, showed he’d missed John somehow. Perhaps someone had passed in front of John at the crucial moment, blocking Sherlock’s view (John was not the tallest of men, after all). John was no sartorial peacock, his clothing a sort of urban camouflage of muted tones and inoffensive silhouettes. He was, he supposed, easy to miss. He was about to start walking toward Sherlock when Sherlock’s face changed from slit-eyed concentration to something much softer, his eyebrows rising and his lips pulling down ever-so-slightly at the corners. He looked bewildered, possibly. . .forlorn? And with this new face, he started looking again, searching for John amid the sea of people, and it was not so methodical this time. Sherlock took a step to his left, leaned forward, his head tipping to see around the big group waiting for their grandchild. He shuffled a little forward, then to his right a few steps, and his neck looked impossibly long, and his lips pursed momentarily.

John thought Sherlock’s expression—seeking him out, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t come after all, just desperate to see him—was the most astonishingly precious thing he had ever seen, and he allowed himself to sidestep just a bit, to half-hide himself behind a dully reflective metal post just so he could see the soft, wide-eyed look on Sherlock’s face for an extra few seconds.

Sherlock’s expression changed again as he reached across his chest for the phone inside his jacket, and he looked extremely put out, even a bit pouty. John stepped back into the open; it was silly and childish (and undoubtedly, ultimately futile) to hide from Sherlock Holmes, only the world’s most observant man. Just as John was sure he was about to get an irritated text, Sherlock returned his phone to his pocket and suddenly bellowed, “ _JOHN. WATSON_.” His deep voice boomed out over the din, which temporarily quieted in an outward-drifting ripple, as if Sherlock were the stone tossed into the pond.

John took pity, didn’t want him to shout again, and jogged forward, excusing himself around a few shoulders.

“Here, Sherlock,” he said loudly, moving quickly toward him. “Here, I’m here.”

Sherlock found him, then. He smiled with his mouth closed, and dragged his bag behind him as he strode to meet John halfway. It was only a few of his steps—a few more of John’s—and they were squared up, face to face, and John could feel his own grin was wide and probably something in the vicinity of over-eager.

“How was your flight?” he asked quickly.

“Long.” Sherlock looked amused.

“Have to tell you something. It’s quite urgent, actually.”

“You could have texted.”

“Nope. New information. Just came in.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. He was still softly smiling. Maybe he knew what John was about to say; he was deducing it even as John recognized it, himself. John felt giddy. Sherlock’s bowed lips were gorgeous.

“I’ve fallen in love with you.”

The creases in his forehead deepened as Sherlock echoed, “You’re falling in love with me?”

“Fallen. Already did. Just didn’t know it until I saw you looking for me about ninety seconds ago.”

“When?”

“Dunno.” John shook his head but damned if he was going to take his eyes off Sherlock’s eyes, the first eyes he’d seen in his entire life actually _twinkling_. John had thought that was just poetry, but there it was. In a lovely pair of eyes looking at _him_.

“Before or after I initiated our sexual relationship?” Sherlock queried.

“Dunno. Before? Yeah, probably before. Well before. I’m not sure.”

“And how are we feeling about that?” Sherlock asked archly. When had he let go of his suitcase’s pull-handle and taken John’s hands?

“Good.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Very good.”

Sherlock’s thumbs were brushing back and forth across John’s knuckles.

“Likewise.” Sherlock said.

“Likewise, which? Feeling good about it, or—”

“The other thing.” Sherlock’s smile showed his teeth, just a bit. John felt like laughing out loud.

“Ah, good. Better that way. When it’s mutual.”

“Will you be uncomfortable if I kiss you now?” Sherlock asked, and his tilted expression let John know he was teasing.

“I’m uncomfortable because you’re not already kissing me.”

Sherlock’s hands came up to rest at either side of John’s jaw, gently tilting his chin. As Sherlock leaned closer, still smiling, John closed his eyes. It was a very nice kiss indeed, hot and soft at once in a way none of their previous kisses had been. It went on quite a long time, and by the end their arms were hard at each other’s backs, bellies and chests rising and falling in complementary rhythm.

“Let’s go home and have just an _heroic_ amount of sex,” John said plainly, and if his grin looked as mental with goofy excitement as he actually felt, he imagined he must look utterly mad. But Sherlock was smiling quite a bit, and he didn’t look mad; he looked gorgeous. He looked like a man John had fallen in love with, like a man in love. It was so much more than John could have hoped for, that Sherlock Holmes should love him, too.

But Sherlock frowned a bit then, and John’s stomach lurched.

“Do we have to have I-love-you sex, now?” He sounded more puzzled than riddled with distaste, but to this point sex had been recreational, experimental, sometimes bordering on competitive. Unfailingly, brutally hot. The best John had had, in fact, and that was no light praise given his long career and numerous partners.

“Nope. But why not keep our options open?”

Sherlock nodded. “You are very wise, John.”

He turned to reclaim his suitcase’s handle only to find that the bag had been jostled away from them by the passing crowds, and a uniformed, badge-wearing, _non_ -police-officer was standing beside it, loudly repeating, “Whose bag is this? Whose bag is this? This bag will be confiscated.” John couldn’t repress his laughter as Sherlock jogged over to rescue his suits and socks and (probably. . .almost certainly) stolen hotel bathrobe from the grouchy-looking guard. Sherlock returned to John’s side, then, and they wove through the crowds, stealing unsubtle, smiling looks at each other as they went.

_So this one’s in love with me. This is what someone who’s fallen in love with me looks like. He doesn’t look any different than he did before the trip. Does he? Maybe he does a bit._

_He’s handsomer than I remembered._

_He’s beautiful. He’s perfect._

_And now—somehow—thank you, universe. . ._

_He’s mine._

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> @FicAuthorPoppy  
> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr


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